


Of Tuxedos and Tuition Breaks

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (Courfeyrac's family), Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Character, Courfeyrac & Marius Pontmercy Friendship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demiromantic Character, Enjolras & Feuilly Friendship, Fake Marriage, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Kissing, M/M, Married for the Tuition Break, Mentions of Chanukah, Mentions of Christmas, Mentions of Extravagant Spending, Minor Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras Friendship, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: Losing his scholarship had been a cruel blow, one that had caught Feuilly completely flatfooted.  Still, he hadn’t planned on telling anyone.  He’d intended to take a semester or two off, earn some money, look into other scholarship options.  That was how Marius had gotten involved in the first place.  He might have come from money, but since walking away from his grandfather, he’d become a wizard at finding scholarships and grants and all kinds of loopholes to make his life more affordable.  He was the one who’d found that marriage tuition break in the university’s by-laws.  Still, nothing would ever have come of it if Courfeyrac hadn’t gotten Feuilly talking about it, hadn’t convinced him that it wasn’t as ludicrous an idea as it had first seemed, that they lived in a state with marriage equality and he was sure that any one of their friends would happily marry him a little just to help out, that, hell, he’d be honored to do it if Feuilly asked him.So, Feuilly did.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takethewatch (fraternite)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/gifts).



> **_December 31, 2016:_** I guess I can add author's notes, now, hmm? Though from your tumblr post about it a couple of weeks ago, I think you may have guess it was me, even without an author's note. ;D
> 
> I am so excited to finally get to share this with everyone! :D (Almost as excited as I was to get matched to @takethewatch to begin with. ^_^) But let me tell you… it’s both a blessing and a curse to get assigned to a friend for an exchange like this. It’s a blessing because you know them well enough to have a pretty good idea of what they like (especially when you and they like such a similar little rowboat of a rare pair! ;D), but it’s a curse because you’re worried that no way what you’re writing could ever be good enough to express how much they mean to you. In short… I did not set out to write an epic winter holiday fake-marriage AU for LMWH, but my poor muse wouldn’t quit until I’d written something that just might be good enough. I guess I’ll let you be the judge. ^_~

“Aaron, do you take Michel to be your legal, wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward?”

_How did we get here?_

“I do.”

_What are we even **doing**?_

“Michel, do you take Aaron to be your legal, wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward?”

 _This is it, isn’t it? Once I say, “I do,” there’s no turning back, no changing my mind. Unless we get divorced. Not that I’d want to get divorced. I wouldn’t. I’m not really thinking about getting divorced on my wedding day, am I? Wow, that’s seriously uncool._ Courfeyrac took a deep breath. Who was he kidding? If one of them was going to end up asking for a divorce, it certainly wouldn’t be him. That was how he’d gotten into this situation in the first place.

Courfeyrac was a sucker for being needed. He always had been. And he was a particular sucker for Feuilly needing him, because Feuilly never needed anyone, or so he liked to pretend. Courfeyrac could count on one hand, with fingers still left over, the number of times Feuilly had actually asked for help in the years he’d known him. And this time, not only had he asked for help, but he had asked Courfeyrac for help. Courfeyrac never stood a chance.

And was this really such a hardship? To marry one of his best friends? No. No, it wasn’t. Courfeyrac took another deep breath, firmly told his racing thoughts and his racing heart to go take a hike and said, “I do.”

The clerk offered them a slightly harried smile before concluding, “I now pronounce you husband and husband. Gentlemen, you may now share a kiss to cement your union, if you so choose.”

Feuilly, for the first time since this venture began, looked as uncertain as Courfeyrac felt. Swallowing hard, he said, “It’s fine. We don’t have to—”

“No, I want to.” Courfeyrac had surprised Feuilly with that answer—given far too quickly and at far too high a pitch, judging by the wide eyes and raised eyebrows—and the truth was, Courfeyrac had surprised himself with that response, too. Kissing had never been high on his list of priorities before, nor did he expect that to change. Feuilly had made it very clear when he’d agreed to this that he didn’t expect it to change, either. It was part of why Courfeyrac had felt comfortable agreeing to do this in the first place. Still. When you got married, you kissed your groom, right? It was just what you did. And it would look weird if they didn’t, wouldn’t it?

…and maybe the idea of kissing Feuilly didn’t bother Courfeyrac nearly as much as he’d expected it would.

Feuilly’s voice was a quiet husk in response, dropping in both pitch and volume. “It’s really OK, Courfeyrac. I don’t want you to do something you’re not—“

However Feuilly was about to finish that sentence, Courfeyrac didn’t want to hear it. Before he could entirely lose his nerve, he lunged forwards, took Feuilly’s face in both hands and pressed their lips together. Feuilly’s lips were lax against his at first, his arms stuck straight out to the sides, his fingers practically in jazz hands, as though terrified that he might break something if he touched Courfeyrac in the wrong spot… or at all.

Just when Courfeyrac was starting to worry that he’d assumed too much in thinking that he was the only one who had a problem with the idea of kissing, Feuilly made this soft little noise in the back of his throat and all but melted into him, hands coming to rest on Courfeyrac’s hips and his body pressing in close. It happened so suddenly that Courfeyrac squeaked and staggered under the additional weight. Feuilly realized that there was a problem and attempted to compensate by leaning back, but Courfeyrac had already leaned forward into him and—

Shortly thereafter, the red-faced and laughing clerk was helping them back up off the floor. As they and their witness signed the appropriate paperwork, the clerk had this to say: “Gentlemen, I’ve been at this for quite some time. I believe this was a first. I guess there’s something to be said for the whole ‘not waiting for marriage’ thing, eh?” With a sly wink, he added, “I’d suggest getting in some practice!”

Feuilly ducked his head. Even so, the blush which had quickly suffused his cheeks was still visible. It went clear up to his ears. Moved by the moment and the fact that Feuilly was always far too adorable when he blushed, Courfeyrac leaned in to kiss the tip of one of those reddened ears before whispering into it, “Well… on the upside, it’ll make a great story for our kids, someday?”

A quiet snort was the only response Feuilly gave, but he did lift his head again afterwards. They were moved along quickly after that—busy day in the civil wedding business, after all—but just as Courfeyrac turned away, something in Feuilly’s face changed. His smile slipped, and that one dimple in his right cheek that Courfeyrac so loved disappeared. It was only for a moment, but Courfeyrac noticed. He just had no idea what it meant. After all, unusual circumstances aside, this was a happy occasion… wasn’t it?

Courfeyrac didn’t keep a car in the city and Feuilly didn’t even have a license, so Marius, their witness, drove them back to the apartment in the car he’d borrowed from Cosette’s father. There was a bit of awkward shuffling around once they got back. Technically, the apartment belonged to Courfeyrac’s family. They’d bought it when the tenement was first built, back in the 60s, and had rented it out ever since. When Courfeyrac had moved to the city for law school, they had gifted it to him for the duration. Courfeyrac and Marius had lived there together for over two years, but now… Courfeyrac winced. Everything had happened so fast and they really hadn’t thought this part through. Marius still needed a place to live, and Courfeyrac doubted that Feuilly would be willing to move in with both of them. The apartment was a decent size, but it wasn’t _that_ big, and Feuilly tended to get a little touchy if his personal space was restricted for too long—a holdover from too many foster homes when he’d had no space at all to call his own.

“So… is this the part where I get kicked out?”

Courfeyrac pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache coming on. Trust Marius to push the awkward situation right out into the open. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but Feuilly beat him to it.

“Of course not. This is your home. Why would you expect that to change?”

Marius’ eyes widened, and his lips parted. It was almost a full minute before he managed to do more than splutter incoherently. “Because you just got married? And you’ll be living here? And want privacy? And— why are you shaking your head?”

Courfeyrac turned just in time to catch Feuilly rolling his eyes. “Why should that change anything? It’s not— we didn’t— Look, Marius, it’s not that kind of marriage. You know that, right? This is just… It’s just because I lost my scholarship. It’s just for the tuition and health insurance breaks. It’s not _real_ , OK?”

In college, Jehan had gone through a phase when the only thing he would watch was anime. Having been his roommate at the time, Courfeyrac had watched more than his fair share. What had always struck him as odd was how, in a lot of the anime aimed at women, when a character was upset, their eyes seemed to grow ten sizes and would start to wobble in a really alarming manner before spewing virtual waterfalls of tears. Courfeyrac had scoffed at the time, because whose eyes really did that?

At Feuilly’s explanation of the true nature of the marriage Marius had just witnessed… Marius’ eyes wobbled.

Courfeyrac had to turn away at that point, busying himself with taking off his suit jacket and hanging it on the coatrack. He’d known, of course, that this was a marriage of convenience, only; that it wasn’t real. He’d known that when he agreed to it. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But hearing Feuilly say it, so nonchalant, like it was assumed… for just a moment, Courfeyrac couldn’t breathe.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Courfeyrac took a moment to fuss with the lay of his jacket on the coatrack, focusing on smoothing the lapels until they were perfectly straight. Under cover of that fussing, he forced himself to take deeper breaths, counting out the inhale and exhale along with his heartbeats: Inhale… 2… 3… 4… Exhale… 2… 3… 4… and again and again. After the sixth exhale, his lungs unclenched, finally allowing him to breathe more normally. Joly had taught him that trick.

By the time Courfeyrac got himself turned back around, Marius had moved into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, leaving Feuilly standing alone in the living room, fingers twisted together and a small frown on his face. When he noticed Courfeyrac watching him, that frown deepened. He stepped closer, a look on his face that Courfeyrac wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret. When he got close enough to speak without Marius overhearing, Feuilly said, “I thought… I thought we’d agreed that this whole thing was going to be an on-paper/in-name-only kind of deal. But I can’t help but feel like I surprised you just as badly as I did Marius just now. And I don’t quite know what to do with that.”

Unfortunately, Courfeyrac wasn’t entirely sure, either. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d known exactly what it was he was signing up for when he’d agreed to this. Marriage didn’t have to be about love. He knew that. How well he knew that. But even so… it was an unpleasant moment when he realized that, even though on some level he’d known that… on a different level, entirely, he had still been expecting more than “Thanks for the legal status; see you at the ABC meeting on Wednesday!” He had no idea what he _had_ been expecting, but he was pretty sure that co-habitation was on the list somewhere.

Clearly it hadn’t been on Feuilly’s.

There was nothing for it now, though. Courfeyrac took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his face. “Of course, not! I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to do this. I know that this isn’t a real marriage. I don’t expect you to give up your apartment or anything, and we don’t even have to tell my parents. Hell, we don’t even have to tell the rest of our friends. Marius can keep a secret,” Courfeyrac raised his voice as he turned towards the kitchen. “Right, Marius?”

“What?” Marius poked his head back out of the kitchen, eyebrows raised all the way up into his hairline, eyes wide, and a lopsided smile on his face that left him looking caught partway between amused and baffled.

Courfeyrac walked over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You can keep this a secret, right? This whole marriage thing?”

Marius blinked once or twice, the bafflement taking over the amusement on his face in a complete rout. Finally he blurted out, “Why?”

Oh no.

Watching the color slowly drain from Marius’ face at Courfeyrac’s silence, Courfeyrac realized that the ship had long since sailed on any attempt to keep this thing a secret, and he really should have figured that out before now. Cosette’s father had lent his car to Marius. That meant that Marius had already told Cosette. And if Marius had told Cosette, then it was all over. Not that Cosette couldn’t keep a secret. She could. But if Marius had told her, it was because _he_ didn’t realize it was a secret and wouldn’t have told _her_ that it was supposed to be a secret. She’d probably already planned a party. In fact…

On a hunch, Courfeyrac asked, “When exactly were you planning on telling us that we’re missing our own wedding party?”

The color returned to Marius’ face in a bright flush of red.

Courfeyrac sighed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Marius buried his face in his hands, muffling his words terribly, but Courfeyrac had had years of practice at deciphering Marius-speak in that condition. Marius said, “I’m always the last to know everything, so I assumed if you were telling me, then everyone else already knew!”

Courfeyrac sighed and turned to face Feuilly, trying to gauge his reaction to this news. Feuilly had one hand wrapped around his stomach and one lifted to his mouth, covering most of his expression. His brown eyes had a suspicious sheen to them and were crinkled slightly at the corners. Courfeyrac’s heart sank. Feeling mildly sick to his stomach, he offered Feuilly a small smile and extended his hand. “I… don’t suppose I can talk you into making an appearance at this thing with me?”

It was a moment before Feuilly dropped his hands, and, when he did, whatever expression had been on his face was wiped clean. There was an indecipherable look in his eyes, but he didn’t seem outright upset…

Feuilly’s warm hand slid into Courfeyrac’s. “I think…” 

Courfeyrac held his breath as Feuilly met his gaze. 

“I think I’d like that.”

* * *

Courfeyrac was made for situations like this, Feuilly thought. He had a natural verve and passion that easily made him the center of attention at every party. Feuilly had always admired that. Courfeyrac’s smile was a flame that could warm the darkest recesses of the coldest heart. It had people eating out of his hands before they’d even been introduced. Courfeyrac working a crowd was a thing of beauty, truly something to behold. And he enjoyed it, too. He really enjoyed connecting with people, finding out what they wanted, what they needed, and making sure they got it.

It was how Feuilly had ended up in this situation to begin with.

Feuilly sighed. Losing his scholarship had been a cruel blow, one that had caught him completely flatfooted. Still, he hadn’t planned on telling anyone. He’d intended to take a semester or two off, earn some money, look into other scholarship options. That was how Marius had gotten involved in the first place. He might have come from money, but since walking away from his grandfather, he’d become a wizard at finding scholarships and grants and all kinds of loopholes to make his life more affordable. He was the one who’d found that marriage tuition break in the university’s by-laws. Still, nothing would ever have come of it if Courfeyrac hadn’t gotten Feuilly talking about it, hadn’t convinced him that it wasn’t as ludicrous an idea as it had first seemed, that they lived in a state with marriage equality and he was sure that any one of their friends would happily marry him a little just to help out, that, hell, he’d be honored to do it if Feuilly asked him.

So, Feuilly had.

The words had slipped out before Feuilly had even had a chance to think about the potential consequences, the reasons why it would be a bad idea.

_“Will you marry me?”_

What had he been _thinking_? Feuilly dropped his head to the bar, burying his face in his folded arms. There was a part of him that still couldn’t believe he’d even asked the question, much less that Courfeyrac had said yes. He remembered watching Courfeyrac’s eyes, the small twitch at the corner of his lips, just waiting for him to declare that it had been a joke, that he took it back… but he hadn’t. In fact, he’d seemed thrilled with the idea, absolutely tickled to get a chance to take advantage of the institution of marriage in such a skewed way. And once Courfeyrac had the bit in teeth on an idea, well… there was no stopping him. One thing lead to another. There was a marriage license, then an appointment at city hall, then that _disastrous_ kiss—something that was still making Feuilly’s face heat with embarrassment even three hours later—and now this. A wedding party.

Feuilly picked up his head, his eyes immediately locking on Courfeyrac’s form across the bar. He had a drink in one hand and his other arm was draped over Bossuet’s shoulders. Both had a flush in their cheeks that spoke of either overindulgence in alcohol or overexertion, and they were singing along with the jukebox. They were drawing the attention of every patron at the bar, whether they were part of the party or not, and Feuilly should have been embarrassed.

He wasn’t.

When someone’s arm slid slowly around his shoulders, Feuilly didn’t even have to look away from the spectacle of Courfeyrac and Bossuet to see who it was. There was only one member of their group that shampooed their hair in that particular combination of vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves. And he was just enough of a contrary cuss that whenever he got teased about it, his response was to cuddle up to the teaser and make sure they got a good whiff… and then smile knowingly when the person grumbled about now craving a cinnamon bun. 

Enjolras tightened his grip, squeezing Feuilly lightly to him before leaning down to press a kiss to Feuilly’s temple. “You are so completely besotted.”

Feuilly finally jerked his gaze away from Courfeyrac, who was now punching in more selections on the jukebox—Broadway show tunes if the evil light in his eye was any indication—and turned to face Enjolras. “I am not.”

Enjolras dropped his arm and settled in on the barstool to Feuilly’s right. At least Feuilly was honest enough with himself to admit that he was relieved that Enjolras hadn’t sat on his other side and blocked his view. He still had an unobstructed view of Courfeyrac’s antics, if he wanted it. When a moment passed and Feuilly’s gaze proved more savvy than he was by slowly drifting back over to Courfeyrac, Enjolras laughed. “Of course, not. My mistake. What was I thinking?”

Feuilly let out a quiet moan and dropped his head back onto his arms. Enjolras lifted his hand and began rubbing circles around Feuilly’s back. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, laced with the sympathy he hadn’t showed a moment ago. “What on Earth even possessed you to ask him? Hell, _I_ would have done it. No one would even have blinked. And then you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

Feuilly raised his head and turned to face Enjolras. His voice emerged as a soft wail. “I don’t _know_. He was just… being _him_. All sympathetic and kind and furious on my behalf that I effectively got kicked out of school, and, the next thing I knew, I was telling him about all of Marius’ plans to get me another kind of scholarship or grant or tuition break and then he was offering to marry me and I asked as a _joke_ , Enjolras, but then he said yes and _what am I supposed to do?_ ” By the time Feuilly finished speaking, his heart was racing and that last question emerged as a high pitched whimper.

Enjolras just put his arm back around Feuilly’s shoulders and gave him a tight hug. “He has no idea, does he?” Another gentle squeeze. “How you feel about him, I mean?”

Feuilly really did whimper this time. “No. I don’t think he does.”

Enjolras snorted. “I love that man like a brother, Feuilly. I really do. But he has got to be the most _oblivious_ person I have ever known. I mean… I know he’s not really wired to notice that stuff, but I’m not either, and I am nowhere near as clueless as he is.” Enjolras paused before huffing out under his breath, “At least, I sure _hope_ I’m not.”

That finally startled a laugh out of Feuilly. He straightened, pulling out of Enjolras’ hold and rubbing his hands over his face before answering. “Apart from that debacle with Grantaire back in freshman year? No. You’re generally not.” He smiled. “Besides, I’d tell you.”

Enjolras bumped Feuilly’s shoulder. “I know you would.” He sighed. “But who’s going to tell _him_?” Enjolras said, nodding in Courfeyrac’s direction.

At even the mere thought, Feuilly’s blood ran cold. “No one.” At Enjolras’ raised eyebrow, Feuilly shook his head. “I’m serious, Enjolras. Please don’t tell him. We… we’re not moving in together, so he’s not going to see me on a daily basis, and once I’ve graduated, we’ll just… get a divorce or something. He doesn’t ever have to know.”

Enjolras was silent for just a moment too long.

Feuilly swallowed hard. “…why do I suddenly get the feeling that there’s something I don’t know?”

Enjolras ducked his head, not quite able to meet Feuilly’s gaze, at first. “You… you have to understand. When Marius told Cosette, and then she told us, we had no idea that… we just had no idea, OK?” Enjolras finally looked back up to meet Feuilly’s gaze. “And I wondered, but I knew how you felt about him and I guess I just let myself hope that maybe this was real, you know? So, when they had this idea for a wedding present, I just… went along with it.”

Feuilly finally looked around, taking in more of the Corinthe than just Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac… Bossuet… Joly… Musichetta… Marius… Cosette… Gavroche… Enjolras… how had he not noticed until now that Bahorel, Grantaire, Jehan, and Eponine were missing? A treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispered, _Because you were focused on Courfeyrac to the exclusion of everything else…. **like usual**._ Which might have been true, but _still_. Turning back to Enjolras, he asked in a horrified whisper, “…where are they? What are they doing?”

Enjolras hung his head. “Moving Marius’ things into his and Cosette’s new apartment and moving yours into Courfeyrac’s.” As Feuilly’s jaw dropped open, Enjolras let out a nervous laugh and said, “Surprise…?”

Feuilly never got a chance to respond to that because Courfeyrac finally seemed to have noticed that he was minus a husband and was calling him over to dance. And when Courfeyrac called, Feuilly knew he would always answer, even if he was cursing his stubborn, ridiculous heart the entire way.

* * *

Courfeyrac was far past buzzed by the time Marius drove him home. He was so far past buzzed— _Pfft. Buzzed. You are **drunk** Monsieur de Courfeyrac. Stone blind drunk._ —that he didn’t think anything of it when Feuilly came with them, or when he and Marius walked him upstairs and tucked him into bed. He was far enough past buzzed that it didn’t even seem out of place when Feuilly settled in next to him on the bed, running a hand through his hair as he lay curled on his side, firmly telling himself that puking was a really unromantic choice… even if you and your husband weren’t really married. Forget romantic. It was just bad manners. And he thanked any god who was listening that he was so far past buzzed that he fell asleep soon after having that thought… and before he could do or say something that he’d end up regretting in the morning.

By the time Courfeyrac woke up, someone had been kind enough to draw the blinds closed and to leave a glass of water and two aspirin on the bedside table. Probably Marius. It wouldn’t be the first time, that was for sure. Marius was thoughtful like that. Courfeyrac swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rolled himself slowly upright. As he sat up, he saw that someone had dressed him in his favorite pajamas—the blue fleece ones with the snowflakes on them and the accompanying blue shirt that was so worn from wear that it was half see-through—and his heart gave a hard lurch in his chest and started pounding when he remembered that both Feuilly and Marius had helped him home last night, but he couldn’t remember who had undressed him. Courfeyrac didn’t pray often, but he couldn’t help it in that moment. _Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh fuck. If there is anyone listening up there, please, please, please let that have been Marius, too._

To Courfeyrac’s great relief, when he turned around there was no one in the bed with him, or anywhere in his room, for that matter. He took his aspirin and drank his water and made his slightly unsteady way to the bathroom. Halfway down the hall, though, he paused, squinting at a framed photograph that hung on the wall. It was a Japanese maple in full autumn colors from the local arboretum. Courfeyrac knew that photo. It was one of his favorites. Feuilly had taken it. He knew that because he was the one who had had it printed and framed for Feuilly for his last birthday. He also knew that it usually hung in Feuilly’s living room, so what the hell was it doing here?

Courfeyrac resumed his walk to the bathroom, trying to convince his now pounding heart to get out of the base of his throat, because that was _not_ helping with the post-indulgence nausea. When he got to the bathroom, he made use of the facilities, then bent over the sink to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth. That helped significantly—the mint with the nausea and the cold water with the fog in his brain. It helped enough that once he’d gotten his contact lenses in and looked around again, he realized that there were changes here, too. All of Marius’ shower things were gone. So was that blazing pink electronic toothbrush that he loved so much—his mother had had one just like it and Courfeyrac hadn’t been able to resist the wistfulness in his eyes when he’d talked about it and had bought it for him shortly after he moved in. And now it was gone. All traces of Marius were gone from the bathroom. But someone else’s toiletries had replaced them, and Courfeyrac knew them, too. They were Feuilly’s.

Unable to take the suspense any longer, Courfeyrac left the bathroom and ran down the rest of the hall and skidded to a stop in the living room. The changes there were more apparent: bookshelves where they hadn’t been before, full of books that Courfeyrac didn’t own. More of Feuilly’s photographs and that one landscape he’d done when he’d dabbled in painting two years ago. The end-table that Jehan had built for Feuilly now sat in the corner created by Courfeyrac’s couch and the plaid couch Feuilly had found at a yard sale that looked hideous but was the most comfortable thing Courfeyrac had ever sat on. Evidence on top of evidence on top of evidence, all for a truth that Courfeyrac still couldn’t process. 

It wasn’t until a warm hand slid into his that Courfeyrac realized that his own hands had gone ice cold. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears in counterpoint to the harsh rasp of his breathing. But it wasn’t until he realized that the soft murmur of reassurance being spoken into his ear was in Feuilly’s voice that he finally found his own again. Turning towards Feuilly, he clamped down on Feuilly’s hand with both of his own, locking their gazes and all but begging Feuilly to believe him with his eyes alone. “Feuilly, I swear this was not my idea. You said you didn’t want to live together and I would _never_ have disrespected that. I wouldn’t… I just wouldn’t.” Courfeyrac’s head dropped onto Feuilly’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Feuilly freed his hand from Courfeyrac’s grip and enfolded him in a tight hug. “I know that, Courfeyrac. You are the absolute last person I would _ever_ think would override my wishes like that. I would have told you about this last night, but you fell asleep before I could.”

Courfeyrac lifted his head, meeting Feuilly’s gaze again. “You… you knew?”

Feuilly nodded. “I knew. Enjolras told me at the party last night. No one realized that we weren’t planning to move in together, and this was their idea of a wedding gift for us and a belated engagement gift for Marius and Cosette.”

Courfeyrac’s heart finally gave up on the idea of pounding itself out of his chest and settled into a more normal rhythm. “They moved Marius’ stuff out and moved your stuff in?”

“Bahorel, Jehan, Grantaire, and Eponine did the actual moving. That’s why they were all so late to the party.”

“And you don’t mind?”

Feuilly face relaxed into a soft smile. “Having had a little time to get used to the idea… no. I don’t mind, at all.” When Courfeyrac’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief, Feuilly added, “The way I figure it, Marius would have been moving out soon anyway. He and Cosette found an apartment they love and they’re practically attached at the hip, already. And I know how you feel about living in this huge place by yourself, so it wouldn’t have been long before you started looking for a new roommate and… well we _are_ married, so…” Feuilly shrugged. “It’s really the only thing that makes any sense.”

Courfeyrac finally allowed himself to smile. “So… we’re really doing this, then?”

Feuilly’s smile widened. “It wasn’t what I originally intended, but yeah. We’re really doing this.”

Courfeyrac finally managed to convince his hands to let go of the death grip they’d taken on Feuilly’s sleep shirt and allowed his tone to take on just a hint of flirting. “Well… in that case, husband mine… would you do me the honor of letting me prepare a ridiculously overindulgent breakfast for you?”

Eyes crinkling at the corners the whole while, Feuilly stepped back and swept Courfeyrac a short bow before rising and offering his arm in escort. “Husband mine… I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Considering how long Feuilly had lived alone, it never ceased to amaze him how easily he and Courfeyrac fell into a routine. It helped that Courfeyrac, for all his boisterous and larger-than-life personality, was the most considerate roommate Feuilly could even imagine. He was generous with his belongings and generous with his time and skills. He was endlessly considerate of Feuilly’s need for personal space. 

The third bedroom—more of a half bedroom, really, but still an actual _extra room_ —had been a shared study for Courfeyrac and Marius, a place for them to house their desks and jointly owned law textbooks. After Feuilly moved in, Courfeyrac had suggested that they do something new with the space. He’d suggested moving his desk into his bedroom and the armchair and its matching ottoman into the third bedroom, then suggested setting up Feuilly’s art supplies in there, as well. That way, if Feuilly wanted company, Courfeyrac could sit with him while he worked, and if he didn’t, Feuilly would at least have a comfortable place to sit if he needed a break. It had quickly become Feuilly’s favorite room in the apartment… especially with Courfeyrac quietly sitting and reading or messing around on his laptop in the armchair.

It meant something, that. It meant something that Courfeyrac had not only been willing, but _eager_ to rearrange his living space to make Feuilly feel at home. And it meant something that Feuilly was not only willing, but eager to share that space with Courfeyrac. It was wonderful… and it was terrifying. 

Feuilly had admired Courfeyrac from the first time he’d laid eyes on him. It had been Feuilly’s first ABC meeting and Courfeyrac had been giving the welcome speech to the new members. The way he’d raised them all up to a fever pitch of fervor had been incredible, because he’d made it look so easy. And that passion didn’t turn off when he sat down. It didn’t turn off when you talked to him one-on-one. If anything, it condensed, focusing entirely on the person he was speaking to.

Feuilly never stood a chance.

He remembered thinking that, surely, that level of passion must only be for show, for important events. Surely, Courfeyrac couldn’t be like that all the time. Except the better Feuilly got to know him, the more he realized that Courfeyrac really was like that all the time. Whatever topic had caught his fancy, whether it be a social injustice, a television show, a book, a music video, or something else entirely, Courfeyrac gave everything he had to exploring it, and he brought all that passion to bear when sharing it with someone else. If Feuilly had tried to live like that, it would have exhausted him in a heartbeat, but Courfeyrac seemed to thrive on that intensity.

Right now, Courfeyrac’s passion of the moment was of the less earth-shattering variety, but you’d never have known it to hear him speak.

“Feuilly, you have to come with me to see it again! _The piglet is so cute._ So. Cute. I _can’t_. I mean, the whole movie is great, but _the piglet_ , Feuilly!” At this point, he turned his laptop around to show Feuilly a movie clip from Moana where the piglet in question was sitting on a boat with an oar in his mouth, crouched down and wagging his tail so hard it moved his entire back end, just like a puppy dog. And the eyes that Courfeyrac was turning on him reminded Feuilly not a small amount of a puppy dog, himself.

Feuilly laughed and said, “OK, OK. I was planning to see it this weekend, anyway. Yes, I’ll take you to see Moana. Again.”

After showering Feuilly in praise and excited squeals, Courfeyrac went back to staring at his gifsets and videos and Feuilly turned back to his blank canvas to start sketching the little pig Courfeyrac had so enthusiastically shown him a moment ago. It was Courfeyrac who’d talked him into trying his hand at painting, again. He’d enjoyed it when he’d taken it up a few years ago, but paints and canvases were expensive, so he’d eventually given it up. Of course, now that he was technically married to someone with far more disposable income than he knew what to do with, suddenly art supplies and canvases just seemed to show up in Feuilly’s room or in the hobby room. He’d tried to talk Courfeyrac out of it in the beginning, tried to convince him that he didn’t need to spend money on him like that, but he’d looked so… crushed. Feuilly had felt immediately as though he’d just smacked a puppy on the nose for doing something he’d thought had been a good thing. And really… was it such a big deal? He’d noticed long ago that Courfeyrac was never happier than when he was doing things for other people. So, if buying Feuilly art supplies made them both happy… wasn’t that a win-win?

So, Feuilly repaid those kindnesses in whatever small ways he could. Courfeyrac… he had a tendency to let a lot of the small things slip through the cracks. He’d mean well, but it would still happen. And sometimes he would just stall out on a task. He’d get as far as organizing the mail into piles based on importance… and then never actually read any of it. He’d get the dishes into the dishwasher and run the dishwasher… and then never get them back out again. It happened often enough that Feuilly was able to figure out what kind of tasks it would likely happen with and start putting systems in place to help Courfeyrac through them. Sometimes those systems helped. Sometimes they really, really didn’t. 

For those tasks, Feuilly just started quietly taking them over. He helped keep the apartment tidy—left to his own devices, Courfeyrac would do things like letting his laundry pile up for weeks. Honestly, Feuilly wasn’t sure what disturbed him more, that Courfeyrac went for weeks on end without cleaning his clothes, or that he had enough clothes that he _could_ go for weeks on end without cleaning them. He wrote up a household budget—and judging by the awe in Courfeyrac’s eyes, he’d never made one of his own before—because even though Courfeyrac’s parents had no problem funneling ludicrous amounts of spending money his way, that surely wouldn’t last forever. So, it was never too soon to learn to be smart with what money they had. Which wasn’t to say that Feuilly did all the work in the apartment. He didn’t. The kitchen was unquestionably Courfeyrac’s domain. Feuilly could put together the basic staples, but Courfeyrac was actually a good cook and he loved nothing more than sharing that with other people. Feuilly had never eaten so well in his life.

Then there were the other things. Feuilly had never noticed it before moving in with him—had probably never been let close enough _to_ notice—but every now and then, he’d catch Courfeyrac locked up his thoughts, breathing too fast and too shallow, eyes glazed as his thoughts spiraled inward. It had happened the first morning they’d been living together. Looking back on it, Feuilly was sure it had happened the day before, too, when he’d announced that he wasn’t planning to move in. But Courfeyrac never seemed to want to talk about it, seemed perfectly content to pretend that either it didn’t happen or that he was successfully hiding it from Feuilly. So, Feuilly had a quiet word with Marius one day to try to confirm that he really was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

He was.

The trick, Marius had told him, was to stay calm and quiet and just do something to let Courfeyrac know that you were there. If he needed you, he’d notice you. If he didn’t, he’d eventually come out of it on his own. And that was easy enough, really. Feuilly could do that.

And so it went. Truth be told, Feuilly was almost disappointed at how easy it was. Then again… he supposed that was how relationships functioned if each party was so paranoid at offending the other that they talked any potential problems to death long before they could become problems. Even so, sometimes it felt like he was living his life waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Still, no one was more surprised than Feuilly when about six months into their marriage—three weeks before Christmas—it did.

Feuilly came home from classes that day to find Courfeyrac sitting at the kitchen table, the mail spread out in front of him, holding something that looked like an invitation to some kind of fancy party. Feuilly wouldn’t have thought much of it, except that Courfeyrac also had that glazed look in his eyes that often suggested an anxiety attack was imminent, if not already in progress.

Feuilly took a moment to hang up his coat and chafe the cold out of his hands before walking into the kitchen. He pulled out the chair that sat caddy-corner to Courfeyrac’s and eased close enough to rest a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. It took a few minutes, but eventually Courfeyrac came around, wordlessly handing over the invitation. It was addressed to Mr. and Mr. Aaron and Michel Feuilly-Courfeyrac… and it was from Courfeyrac’s parents.

Feuilly read through the rest of the invitation. Past the shocker of the address line, there was nothing else surprising there. He’d heard, of course, of the Courfeyrac family’s extravagant Christmas gala, held every year on Christmas Eve, but he’d never imagined that he would rate an invitation, and certainly not like this! 

By the time Feuilly finished reading, Courfeyrac had turned to face him, and his expression was like that of a man trying to figure out how to tell someone he’d just run over their child. Feuilly moved his hand from Courfeyrac’s shoulder to his cheek. Quietly, he said, “Whatever you’re thinking is so bad, it will be better if you just get it out in the open. Then, whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. OK?”

Courfeyrac took in a shaky breath, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I swear I never told them. I know… I know this marriage isn’t real. And you didn’t even want our friends to know, at first. So, I wouldn’t have— I swear, I didn’t—“

Oh. 

Feuilly put down the invitation so he could cup Courfeyrac’s face with both hands. The spate of words stopped as Courfeyrac froze, eyes wide, waiting. Feuilly allowed himself one moment to stroke his thumbs over Courfeyrac’s cheekbones, marveling, not for the first time, that Courfeyrac let him take such liberties. Then he said, “It’s OK. I know you wouldn’t have done that without talking to me first. Hell, you won’t even change brands of toilet paper without discussing it with me first! But we live in the same state your parents do. And, like Bahorel, your parents know everyone. It really was only a matter of time, when you think about it. And I find… I don’t really mind that they know. OK?” Feuilly leaned in and touched his forehead to Courfeyrac’s, thrilling just a little when Courfeyrac raised his hand to press Feuilly’s hand more firmly against his cheek in response.

 _Dangerous,_ a voice in Feuilly’s mind whispered. The worst thing was… that voice wasn’t wrong. If he’d been in too deep before, then the water was way over his head by now. Those gestures of affection were coming too easily, becoming too instinctive. And Courfeyrac was too responsive, by far, to those gestures of physical affection. They might sleep in separate beds, their marriage might be in name only, and Courfeyrac might never be attracted to Feuilly the same way Feuilly was to him, but Courfeyrac was a physically affectionate person. He welcomed every one of those casual touches, leaning into them like a cat begging for skritches in just the right spot. And that messed with Feuilly’s head something fierce, made him wish for things that could never be, for feelings that he knew Courfeyrac would never reciprocate. Still, he would take whatever he could get and be glad of it, no matter how much it might hurt him later on.

After another moment, Courfeyrac pulled away and picked up the invitation, again. He sighed. “It’s not just that, though. It’s that… if we tell her the truth, my mother will be devastated. She’s hoped I would someday bring a fiancé home ever since she attended her first PFLAG meeting. When I finally got up the guts to tell her I was aromantic and asexual, she did her best, but I don’t think she ever let go of that dream. I’m sure she’s built this all up in her head already. But if we don’t tell her the truth, and when you’re done with school, we… we get…” He swallowed hard.

Feuilly’s mouth went dry. It was the one aspect of this that they’d never actually spoken about: the understanding that someday this whole fake marriage was probably going to end. The understanding that once Feuilly had graduated and didn’t need the tuition break or the health insurance or the tax break anymore, that they’d stop playing house and go their own separate ways. He couldn’t even say the word in his own head, so he couldn’t blame Courfeyrac for not being able to say it out loud. Feuilly reached out and took Courfeyrac’s hand in his. “I get it. You’re afraid that given years to get used to the reality of you being married, that if that gets taken away, she’ll be more upset than if she finds out now.”

Courfeyrac’s response was a cracked whisper. “Exactly. No matter what I do, I’ll end up hurting her. So, what do I do?”

Feuilly leaned in and pulled Courfeyrac into a tight hug, speaking his answer almost directly into Courfeyrac’s ear. “First things first. We RSVP to the party. Second… you remember that your mother loves you and that all she wants is for you to be happy, no matter what that looks like.”

When Feuilly finally got up to go order Chinese from Courfeyrac’s favorite take-out place for dinner, he did his best not to draw attention to the fact that the shoulder of his shirt was wet where Courfeyrac’s face had been pressed into it. Because he got it. He really did. Sometimes, having a family that loved you unconditionally could move you to tears in much the same way as having no family at all. And if Courfeyrac never called Feuilly out for the latter, than it was the least Feuilly could do to not call him out for the former… even if some small part of Feuilly wished that someday he’d be crying for the same reason, for being overwhelmed by the thought that he was so very loved by a family of his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Courfeyrac stood up and started stretching to get the kinks out of his back. They’d caught the 4:06 express commuter train out of Penn, which was a blessing, but that meant almost two solid hours sitting in a cramped four-seater with three other people practically in his lap without even a break at Jamaica or Babylon to change trains. At least one of the people who’d been half in his lap had been Feuilly. Though to be truthful, the bigger surprise was that they’d gotten seats at all. This train was usually pretty packed every Friday just with people going out to the Hamptons for the weekend. The day before Christmas Eve? It was worse than usual.

Feuilly stood up once Courfeyrac moved out into the aisle to grab their bags off the luggage rack. He’d fallen asleep on Courfeyrac’s shoulder about a half hour into the trip, tired from a long week of work and finals, and Courfeyrac hadn’t had the heart to wake him. He still didn’t look entirely awake. Taking pity on him, Courfeyrac took both of their bags, one on each shoulder, then took Feuilly’s hand in his and gently guided him down the aisle to the exit. It was a true measure of how exhausted he must have been that Feuilly didn’t protest and instead just came along quietly behind without a word.

It was only a five minute ride from the train station to his parents’ house, but Courfeyrac was pretty sure Feuilly fell asleep again in the cab. He nudged him back awake when they were a block away. Feuilly blinked blearily at him and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. “Are we there?”

Courfeyrac lifted a hand to run it through Feuilly’s rumpled hair, gently teasing it back into some semblance of order. When Feuilly dropped his own hand and leaned into the touch, making a sleepy, contented noise, Courfeyrac’s heart gave a hard lurch in his chest. What was he doing? He had to be overstepping about a hundred boundaries here. Slowly, he removed his hand from Feuilly’s hair, ignoring the small mew of disappointment Feuilly made as well as he could. “Yeah, just about. Do you think you can wake up enough to say hello to everyone? Or should I make excuses for you so you can go straight upstairs for a quick nap?”

“Nap?” Feuilly blinked again, a bit more awareness coming back into his gaze as he straightened up. “What about dinner?”

Courfeyrac smiled. “It’s just after 6 and the family doesn’t eat until 7. You have time for a brief nap if you want it.” When Feuilly’s response was immediately to yawn so wide that his jaw cracked, Courfeyrac let out a soft chuckle. “I’d say that’s answer enough. I’ll make your excuses to my parents and smuggle you straight upstairs, then come get you for dinner, OK?”

“…I’d really like to object to that plan, but I’ll probably fall asleep halfway through the conversation if I try to power through.” And it was on that answer that the cab pulled into the driveway of Courfeyrac’s family home… and Courfeyrac promptly lost Feuilly’s attention to staring out the window at the sprawling estate. “What… the ever-loving… _what_??”

Courfeyrac winced. “Yeah, it’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“A bit _much_? You could house at least 30 people in there! How big is your family?”

Courfeyrac winced again, hunching deep into his coat as he mumbled, “Nine, if my grandparents are up from Florida and my sister brings her husband?”

At that answer, Feuilly finally tore his eyes away from the house to look at Courfeyrac, again. Seeing Courfeyrac so hunched up and not quite meeting his gaze, his eyes lost some of their wide, shocky look. Sighing, he said, “I really had no idea what I was agreeing to when I volunteered to come, did I? I mean… you tried to warn me, but I don’t think I really got it.” Swallowing hard, he said, “I’m going to be grossly underdressed for this party, tomorrow, aren’t I?”

Courfeyrac uncurled from his hunched posture and shook his head. “We’re close enough to the same size and I keep my spare tuxedo out here. You’ll be fine.”

Feuilly stared wide-eyed at Courfeyrac for a moment before dropping his face into his hands. “You have a spare tuxedo. As in you own more than one. And you keep spares in places _just in case you might need one._ I can’t. I just… what the hell kind of world did you grow up in?”

Laughing softly, Courfeyrac clapped a hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “Right? It’s completely, thoroughly ridiculous. The aunts and uncles on my father’s side pitched a fit when they found out I was giving up the participle and moving to the city to become a public defender. They didn’t talk to me for almost a full year. It was fantastic.” At Feuilly’s bemused look, Courfeyrac’s grin widened. “Trust me. You haven’t met them, yet. My immediate family is the only branch that has a foot anywhere near the realm of reality. The rest are… yeah. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly disappointed when they stopped speaking to me.” Seeing that Feuilly looked far more awake now, Courfeyrac held out his hand. “You ready to go meet the folks, then?”

Feuilly slid his hand into Courfeyrac’s and nodded once. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

Courfeyrac slid out of the car to pay the cab driver, then met Feuilly around the back to get their bags. As worried as he’d been about this weekend, there was a part of him that was starting to feel just a bit excited. Feuilly had gotten better about letting Courfeyrac give him things, but he still balked at anything that even hinted at overindulgence and Courfeyrac had been positively dying for an excuse to spoil him a little. It was the one thing about this weekend that he’d been looking forward to. If there was one thing the de Courfeyracs did well, it was spoil their guests, and if Feuilly thought Courfeyrac was hard to say no to… he hadn’t seen anything, yet.

As they reached the broad front porch, however, something caught Courfeyrac’s eye enough to make him pause and back up. Holy… hell. He’d known his mother’s information network was extensive, but even he hadn’t realized it was _that_ extensive. Feuilly walked over to see what it was that had caught Courfeyrac’s attention. In response, Courfeyrac nodded at the front window. When Feuilly turned to look, his breath caught. Courfeyrac immediately leaned into him and took his hand. Sitting in the large bay window, front and center in pride of place among the Christmas decorations, was an electric menorah. Surrounding it in the window were Stars of David, some in colored foil, some in strings of electric lights.

Feuilly swallowed hard. “You… you didn’t tell me someone in your family was Jewish.”

Courfeyrac squeezed Feuilly’s hand before raising it and placing a gentle kiss on the knuckles. Reaching out with his other hand, he brushed away the few tears that had escaped Feuilly’s control. Softly, gently, he said, “No one is. Feuilly… I have no idea how she knew, but I’m pretty sure that’s for you.”

Feuilly took in a deep, shuddering breath and turned to hide his face in Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac just held him, stroking a hand down his back to calm the tremors he could feel racing through Feuilly’s body. Knowing so little about his biological family, Feuilly had never really felt comfortable claiming the cultural heritage that was his by birth. Sometimes Jehan could convince him to join him at the campus Hillel for one of the holidays, but more often than not, he couldn’t. Feuilly had confessed to Courfeyrac once that he felt awkward about it, because he knew so little about his heritage and always felt out of place, like he _should_ belong, but didn’t quite. It was a constant sore spot, the desire to be part of something, yet feeling like he wasn’t good enough to be part of it. 

It was a dichotomy that Courfeyrac could well understand. It was the same conundrum that had prevented him from ever seeking out a life partner—feeling like he didn’t have enough to offer to make it worth someone’s while. And maybe that had had an influence on Courfeyrac agreeing to participate in this fake marriage to begin with. On some level, he was pretty well convinced that this might be his only chance to experience anything like it, because at least in a situation like this, he had something to offer.

By the time Feuilly straightened, wiping his eyes as best he could on his woolen coat sleeve, they had company. Courfeyrac’s mother and father were standing in the doorway, respectfully and quietly waiting to be noticed. His mother’s face was puckered in worry. When Courfeyrac looked up, she asked, “Is everything all right?”

Feuilly’s face flushed a deep pink and he made a helpless gesture at the window decorations. Courfeyrac’s mother’s mouth opened in a silent “Oh,” and she held out her arms. When Feuilly turned to him, eyes wide in slight panic, Courfeyrac just smiled and gave him a small push. Courfeyrac’s mother enveloped Feuilly in a hug and said, “I’m so sorry, dear. I meant it to be a happy surprise, not a cause for sadness. I can take it down, if you like.”

Feuilly stepped back out of Mrs. de Courfeyrac’s embrace, shaking his head firmly. “No, ma’am. I do like it. I didn’t realize you even knew, much less that you’d think to decorate with me at all in mind. I just wasn’t prepared. But… thank you. Really. Thank you.”

That seemed to be all that was needed to break the tableau. Courfeyrac’s parents ushered them both inside, taking coats and bags, and sending the bags upstairs with Courfeyrac’s younger brother, Seth. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were herded into the living room and ensconced on one of the couches with mugs of mulled wine pressed into their hands and Courfeyrac’s parents sitting across from them with please smiles on their faces. Courfeyrac’s mother was the one to break the silence. “I promised myself I wouldn’t give you two the third degree, but surely it’s fair to ask for a _little_ information as compensation for not being invited to the wedding? After all, apart from knowing that you two were friends and ran with the same crowd, we had no advanced warning that this was coming!”

And there they were. Courfeyrac took a deep breath, ready to spin a story, though still unsure how he was going to explain all this, when Feuilly beat him to it. “Mrs. Courfeyrac—“

“Marie, please. And my husband is Daniel.”

“Of course. Marie, I do apologize for the fact that we didn’t invite you to the wedding. It was far more spur-of-the-moment than a wedding should have been.” Feuilly turned to Courfeyrac, then, and the soft, fond smile on his face did _not_ make Courfeyrac catch his breath in sudden longing. It didn’t. Not at all. And when Feuilly reached out and twined the fingers of their free hands together a moment later, Courfeyrac’s heart did not start beating in double time. It didn’t. This wasn’t _real_. Feuilly turned back to face Courfeyrac’s parents and said, “I asked and he said yes and neither of us has any kind of patience for pomp and circumstance, so the next thing we knew, we were at city hall with Michel’s roommate, Marius, as a witness and saying ‘I do.’ Our friends threw us a party that night at our favorite pub, we moved in together, and that’s really all there is to tell.”

Marie clapped her hands together, a sappy smile of her own on her face. “Is it ridiculous of me if I find that extremely romantic in a very modern and trendy sort of way?”

Feuilly smiled, as charmed by Courfeyrac’s mother as Courfeyrac had known he would be. Within five minutes, the two had fallen down the rabbit hole of discussing the current state of the public school history curriculum—or lack thereof, at the elementary level—and their favorite figures in history and what they would make of the curriculum if they were given full autonomy, and it wasn’t until Courfeyrac’s father caught his eye and winked that Courfeyrac realized that he and his father had equally sappy, besotted smiles on their faces as they watch their respective spouses tear into their chosen conversational topic like they’d been born to debate it with each other.

And that was the exact moment when Courfeyrac realized exactly how much trouble he was really in… and swallowed the rest of his wine in one long, steady gulp.

The rest of the night was lovely. Even though the first night of Chanukah wasn’t until the next night, Courfeyrac’s mother had made latkes and sufganiyot and they had insisted on giving Feuilly gifts, as well—a $300 gift card to The Strand bookstore from Courfeyrac’s father and a luxuriously soft navy blue sweater from Courfeyrac’s mother that Courfeyrac was _never_ going to let on to Feuilly had cost more than the gift card, especially given that Feuilly would probably end up painting in it sooner or later. There was chocolate gelt and small wooden dreidels—and then a truly competitive round of betting once they’d figured out the rules of using them. Seth positively cleaned them out at with that one, ending the evening lording it over a mountain of chocolate coins and a wry comment from his father that, forget Europe, maybe he should take him to Atlantic City for his 18th birthday.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly had gone upstairs with full stomachs and warm in more ways than one. Feuilly had a smile on his face that just wouldn’t quit, and Courfeyrac wanted nothing more than to keep them both here forever if every night could be like this. It wasn’t until they got upstairs that they hit the first snag in the works. Both his and Feuilly’s bags were in Courfeyrac’s old room… and there was still only the one bed. That realization was like a splash of cold water in Courfeyrac’s face.

Before Courfeyrac could even start to work himself up about it, however, Feuilly was hugging him from behind, his chin hooked over Courfeyrac’s shoulder as he slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rocking Courfeyrac along with him. He pressed a soft kiss into Courfeyrac’s temple and said, “This has been, without question, one of the best nights of my life. And if the only snag in the works is that we’re sharing sleeping space… well, the only real potential problem I see is that I never lost the puppy pile sleeping tendency from when I was a kid. You’ll probably find yourself cuddled by morning.” As Courfeyrac slowly began to relax, Feuilly added, “So, if I can promise that even if some excessive cuddling happens, that I will make _damned_ sure that I don’t accidentally take it further than that, even in my sleep… are you OK with that?”

Courfeyrac’s head jerked up and down in a shaky nod, trying to ignore the way his heart had started racing at just the mere thought of getting to cuddle up to Feuilly for the entire night… every night… for the whole weekend. As Feuilly stepped away to grab his toiletries and his pajamas and retreat to the bathroom to change, Courfeyrac dropped down onto the bed and buried his face in his hands, fighting back a sob of pure frustration. He was already starting to have trouble with the idea of walking away at the end of these couple of years. How much worse was it going to be after this?

When Feuilly came out of the bathroom wearing the pajama set that Courfeyrac had bought him last month, the desire to sob in frustration increased ten-fold. He’d bought that set because the flannel had been so, so soft, and he’d thought the deep green of the matching shirt would complement Feuilly’s dark, brown eyes. Feuilly had yet to wear them… until now. And Courfeyrac had been right. The deep green suited him. 

…he was gorgeous.

While Feuilly’s back was turned, unpacking a few things from his bag and hanging them in the closet, Courfeyrac took his opportunity and his things and fled for the bathroom. It was going to be one fucking long night.

* * *

When Feuilly woke, it was to the soft light of dawn shining through the sheers over the balcony doors. He still boggled over the fact that Courfeyrac’s childhood bedroom had a balcony. It had its own _bathroom_. And a walk-in closet. He’d complained about Courfeyrac’s tendency to throw around money that he didn’t have to throw around before, but the more Feuilly saw of this house, the more he marveled at the fact that Courfeyrac had any sense of practical spending in the real world at _all_. Enjolras had grown up in the same kind of opulence—his family’s home was just on the other side of town, after all, so it couldn’t have been his influence. It must have been Combeferre’s.

Still, for all that, Courfeyrac’s family was lovely. They were warm, welcoming, and ridiculously generous—a $300 gift card for the Strand!—and it was clear to see from where Courfeyrac had come by those traits. Feuilly had to admit that he was already enjoying himself far more than he’d expected to.

For just a moment, Feuilly allowed himself to tighten his arms around Courfeyrac and bury his face into the back of his neck. This was the worst kind of indulgence, exactly the sort of thing that he’d promised himself he wouldn’t allow to happen when he’d moved into Courfeyrac’s apartment. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he could keep his hands to himself. Courfeyrac had no interest in that, and Feuilly had no interest in making unwanted advances. But this… this feeling of being safe and warm and just… being allowed to be this close to him, to bask in his presence and hold him while he slept, soft and vulnerable and completely trusting… Feuilly could far too easily get used to this. Hell, he was already in love with the man—he didn’t need the memory of this sort of thing to make that even harder to let go of!

Feuilly froze. _Oh no…_ A strangled whimper escaped his throat along with that thought. He’d managed to deny it to himself all this time, but… he really was in love with Courfeyrac, wasn’t he? Feuilly had known that he admired him, that he looked up to him, that he respected him and enjoyed being in his company. As Enjolras had once said, Feuilly had been besotted with him since the day they’d met, but this… this was different. Feuilly was _in love_ with Courfeyrac. Real, honest-to-goodness love. And he had no idea what to do about it.

That thought was what finally drove Feuilly from the warmth of their shared bed, in spite of the sleepy noise of protest Courfeyrac made when he got up. Taking his clothes with him, Feuilly fled for the bathroom to shower and get dressed. No matter how kind, how understanding, how generous Courfeyrac was, would he ever have agreed to this marriage if he’d had an inkling that Feuilly might not want it to have an expiration date? What if he didn’t _want_ to stay married? What if Feuilly’s motives hadn’t been as innocent as he’d thought? What if this had really just been a convenient excuse for Feuilly to have someone he never could have had otherwise? How could he even broach the subject that he might have lured Courfeyrac into marriage under false pretenses? Feuilly’s stomach twisted into knots at that thought and it was all he could do to not be sick right then.

Feuilly forced all of those thoughts down into a corner of his mind and firmly locked them away. One way or another, this was _not_ the time or place to have that conversation. Not even close. But it was a conversation that they definitely needed to have, sooner rather than later. Because the last thing Feuilly wanted was for Courfeyrac to think he’d been taken advantage of for even one second. There were other ways to pay for school and Feuilly would take any one of them before abusing Courfeyrac’s trust like that.

…fuck. He really _was_ smitten, wasn’t he?

Once Feuilly was dressed, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen, unsure if he was hoping that someone would be awake and able to point him towards the coffee or if he was hoping to have the place to himself so he could brood in peace. But, as luck would have it, brooding would have to wait. Courfeyrac’s father was in the kitchen, already pouring himself a cup of coffee and cutting thick slices of bread for toast. Feuilly nodded in response to his raised eyebrow and Courfeyrac’s father cut two more slices of bread and poured another cup of coffee.

By the time they had settled in at the breakfast table, Feuilly was starting to wonder if it was up to him to get the conversation started or if Mr. Courfeyrac wasn’t enough of a morning person to want to have a conversation this early. In the end, it turned out that he just needed to get some coffee into him. When they were about halfway through their meal, Courfeyrac’s father turned to Feuilly and asked, “So, did you sleep well?”

“Quite well, sir. Thank you,” Feuilly answered, the whole time wondering if Mr. Courfeyrac’s smile meant that there was a double meaning to the question that he’d missed.

But when Mr. Courfeyrac shook a finger at him, it turned out to be nothing of the kind. “I’m pretty sure my wife told you last night that my name is Daniel. I don’t stand on ceremony with my sons-in-law.” Under his breath, he added, “Even if the other one deserves it.” He cleared his throat, then looked up with a bright smile. “That’s beside the point, though. The point, Aaron, is that I’m glad I caught you before Michel woke up. I’m glad you slept well, and I hope you’re well-rested as a result. You see… I’m kidnapping you, today.”

What?

Feuilly stared at Courfeyrac’s father for a minute, trying to figure out what it was that he’d missed. When no further information was forthcoming, he said, “You’re… kidnapping me. Can I ask why?”

Daniel’s smile widened—and, huh, that must have been where Courfeyrac had gotten that particularly mischievous look from, too—and said, “Yes, you may. It has come to my attention that you do not own a tuxedo of your own, nor a proper pair of dress shoes. Now, my son, though he meant well in offering you his spare tuxedo, failed to take into account a number of things that are problematic with that idea.”

At this point, Feuilly could feel his eyes widening and his head beginning to swim. This was already starting to sound like far more than he had bargained for when coming down in search of caffeine…

“First of all, I doubt this is the kind of party you generally attend. It isn’t the kind of party that most people attend, anymore, and there’s nothing wrong with that. This holiday gala of ours is a throwback to a forgotten era and we like it that way. But it does mean that you may feel somewhat uncomfortable or unsure. In my experience, when feeling uncomfortable or unsure, if I at least know that my clothing is comfortable and shows me off to advantage, then I feel more confident and thus, more comfortable. I would like you to have that same opportunity, rather than having to wear someone else’s hand-me-downs, even if they belong to someone you love.”

And… this must also have been where Courfeyrac had gotten his propensity to be a clotheshorse. Feuilly was certain he’d heard Courfeyrac give some version of this speech to Combeferre on his first day of medical school. Knowing that, he began to relax. Really, Daniel de Courfeyrac seemed to be just an older, slightly more heavy-handed version of the Courfeyrac he already knew. And Feuilly got on with that Courfeyrac just fine. This might just work out…

“Second of all, my son is the single best judge of character I have ever known.” Smiling fondly, Daniel added, “Gets that from his mother, I’m sure.” He winked, then continued. “And if he has seen fit to marry you, then in here,” Daniel tapped his own chest, right over his heart. “You are easily the equal, perhaps even the better, of anyone who will be at this party tonight, fortune or no fortune. And I will not have anyone make you feel less than that simply because you do not look the part.”

When Feuilly nodded, too moved to even try to respond, Daniel’s smile deepened and he reached out to clap Feuilly on the shoulder. “Finally, I am going to impart a piece of advice to you that has been passed down through no less than four generations of the de Courfeyrac family. Each son that has married in this family, or married into it, has been given this advice.” Taking a deep breath, Daniel intoned, “‘If it is a woman’s responsibility to dress to please and well-represent her husband, so too should it be a man’s responsibility to dress to please and well-represent his wife.’” As Feuilly’s cheeks started to heat under Daniel’s smirking regard, Daniel said, “In other words, just because you’re married now, it doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t, on occasion, do your best to make your spouse’s jaw hit the floor. And since, newest son of mine, I wasn’t allowed the privilege of dressing either of you for your wedding, I hope you will allow me the privilege of dressing you for one small party.”

And really… what could Feuilly say to that?

* * *

When Courfeyrac had awoken to find Feuilly long gone that morning, he’d been honest enough with himself to admit to a surge of real disappointment. There was a significant part of him that had wanted to know what it would feel like to wake up in Feuilly’s arms. Although, that was ignoring the fact that that simple truth was worrisome, to say the least. Still, he’d had plenty to keep his mind off of both the truth and its worrisome nature once he announced his presence downstairs. As per usual, his mother co-opted he and Seth for kitchen duty for the day. Even though the affair at large was catered, Marie de Courfeyrac still insisted on making certain dishes herself, and she had taught her children well.

Seth didn’t have quite the same knack for cooking that Courfeyrac did, so he was mostly relegated to plating and decorating—which he _did_ have a knack for—and cutting things for Courfeyrac and their mother. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, had all the knack for cooking that Seth lacked, and then some, and had long since graduated to being responsible for his own dishes. The three worked in companionable almost-silence, one only broken by the sounds of the randomized music selections they’d all contributed to the day’s playlist and occasional impromptu sing-alongs.

Courfeyrac didn’t start to fret about Feuilly’s absence until he realized that it was nearing 4 o’clock and his father was still not home with Feuilly. It wasn’t until almost 5 o’clock that the pair walked in the door. Courfeyrac’s father looked triumphant, but Feuilly just looked like he’d like to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He collapsed next to Courfeyrac on the sofa and immediately tipped over to rest his head in Courfeyrac’s lap. Courfeyrac was so startled that he almost dropped the plate of finger food that he’d stolen as a light dinner.

For his part, Courfeyrac’s father perched on the arm of his wife’s chair and attempted to steal a mini-quiche from her plate and got his fingers smacked for the presumption. When Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and waved a hand in Feuilly’s direction, his father shrugged and said, “He needed something to wear for tonight that wasn’t your old hand-me-down tux. There wasn’t enough time to get him something bespoke, but we went down to Brooks Brothers to get him something off the rack, then over to my tailor’s to get it fitted. Then we had lunch at Wölffer Kitchen, picked up shoes, had _them_ tailored, then went back to pick up the tuxedo. I may have also shown him some of the sights, since I knew your mother would have you working too hard to take him.” Courfeyrac’s father finished off that recitation with a wide smile.

Courfeyrac dropped his free hand down to pet Feuilly’s hair. No wonder he was exhausted. A full day of shopping with his father… even Courfeyrac wasn’t sure he had the stamina for that, anymore. And for Feuilly it would have been more than that. He was always after Courfeyrac to throw his monetary weight around a little less… but he was _nothing_ compared to his father. His father had probably spent no less than $2000 on one outfit for Feuilly today… and Feuilly was probably reeling from that alone.

“OK. Well, that’s more than enough to tell me that I need to take my husband upstairs and tuck him in for a quick nap before the guests arrive in a few hours,” Courfeyrac said. “If you’ll excuse us…” With a few gentle prods and softly spoken words, Courfeyrac got Feuilly up off the couch and helped him up the stairs, the whole while firmly telling himself that his heart wasn’t hammering like a giddy schoolboy’s at the fact that he’d called Feuilly his husband in casual conversation, like it was something he said every day. His husband. Courfeyrac liked the sound of that… and that was the whole problem.

Feuilly roused a little when Courfeyrac was taking his shoes off, but didn't stay roused for long. Courfeyrac hesitated over Feuilly’s jeans, but eventually decided that that was one step too far. They might be acting more like a real married couple for his parents’ benefit, and they might be sleeping in the same bed because his parents didn’t know that it should be otherwise, but that didn't mean that Courfeyrac suddenly had the right to take those kinds of liberties without asking first when he’d never been allowed to take them before. So, instead he helped Feuilly get settled, then pulled the afghan up from the foot of the bed and draped it over him. Just as he started to move away, however, something caught the trailing edge of his sweater.

Feuilly.

Courfeyrac turned back to find Feuilly’s bleary eyes staring back at him, an indecipherable look in their brown depths. Courfeyrac didn’t know what that look meant, but he had a strong suspicion that Feuilly-the-child might have worn it at his most lost, and he knew that he hated seeing it on Feuilly’s face now. 

Courfeyrac sat back down on the bed and reached out to brush Feuilly’s hair back off his forehead, then, when Feuilly’s face lost some of that sad look at the gesture, he continued running his fingers through Feuilly’s hair. “Long day, my love?”

Feuilly’s voice was a hoarse whisper when it emerged. “How can one person spend that much money in _one day_? How? I— do you have any idea what I could have _done_ with $2500?”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Yeah… I thought that might have been what did it.” Courfeyrac turned to lean his back against the headboard, swinging his legs up onto the bed—and firmly told himself that it meant _nothing_ when Feuilly turned to curl into his leg and rest his head on his thigh. He was just tired and emotionally exhausted and seeking comfort. He’d have curled up on _anyone_. It didn’t mean anything… no matter how much Courfeyrac was starting to wish it did. When Courfeyrac resumed his gentle stroking of Feuilly’s hair, he said, “He was worse when I was younger, believe it or not. My mom… she was born upper middle class. Her family has money—enough to send her to an expensive private school, enough to buy her whatever she wanted, but not enough to be truly obscene. My father’s family, on the other hand…” 

Courfeyrac swallowed hard. Fuck, he did not want to admit this. Feuilly would never look at him the same way again. Sure, Feuilly had known that his family had money, but he didn’t know exactly how much. He knew that Enjolras’ family had this kind of money, but he also knew that Enjolras had all but disowned them. Courfeyrac might have disavowed his participle, but he hadn’t done any such thing with his family. It was different. Taking a deep breath, Courfeyrac finally said, “Feuilly… This is the smallest house we own, apart from the $4.2 million beach house we have on the shore. And the only reason we live here instead of, say, the $85 million villa we own in the south of France, is because my mother flat out put her foot down and said that it was absurd to live like that and her children would be raised to know the value of work and the value of a dollar. She and I have been working on my father, getting him to start putting significant amounts of that money to good use: medical foundations, scholarship foundations, new hospitals, charter schools, pro bono funds for people who can’t afford lawyers—you name it, we’ve probably gotten him into it… and we _still_ haven’t even begun to dent the kind of money this family has.”

Feuilly was silent for a good ten minutes after that, far too long for Courfeyrac’s comfort, but the fact that he’d taken up a gentle counterpoint petting by running his fingers down the inseam along Courfeyrac’s calf was reassuring, even if it did tickle. Eventually he let out a heavy sigh and said, “So, what you’re telling me is that $2500 for a tuxedo and pair of shoes and an additional $300 for lunch is a token gesture of welcome for him?” When Courfeyrac nodded, Feuilly sighed again and sat up. “You’re also trying to tell me that I’ve unwittingly married into the 1%, and it’s a bit late to complain about it now.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth went dry. That was exactly the reaction he’d been afraid of, exactly the thing he’d hoped Feuilly wouldn’t figure out. He swallowed a few times to wet his throat before admitting, “…pretty much.”

But when Feuilly looked up at Courfeyrac from beneath his bangs, it was to offer him a crooked smile and say, “I suppose it’s also a bit too late to say that I married you, not your family, isn’t it?”

Courfeyrac’s breath caught in his throat at that, but he managed to return a smile of his own. “It was too late the second my mother sent that invitation.” At Feuilly’s snort of amusement, Courfeyrac added, “Hey, I _did_ at least try to warn you!”

Feuilly dropped his gaze at that, lips twitching as a wider smile tried to make its presence known. Reaching out, he took Courfeyrac’s hand in his, twining their fingers together, just as he’d done the night before, only this time there was no audience to perform for. It was just them. That hand-holding soon turned into a gentle tug, and Courfeyrac found himself laying down with Feuilly, curled up under the afghan and snuggled close together, legs intertwined. And it felt… nice. It felt as safe and comfortable as when he and Enjolras and Combeferre always piled together for a nap. Different… but just as nice. And, for once, Courfeyrac stopped questioning it and simply let it be what it was. Barely moments later, he was sound asleep.

Two hours later, Courfeyrac opened his eyes to find Feuilly already awake and watching him, his arms wrapped firmly around Courfeyrac’s waist. Courfeyrac’s heart started to beat just a little harder. This. This was what he’d wanted this morning and hadn’t gotten. To wake up here, in Feuilly’s arms, just like this. And judging from the soft, shining look in Feuilly’s eyes, and the way that he hadn’t moved an inch further away than he’d been when they went to sleep, he was exactly where he wanted to be, too. Courfeyrac wetted his lips, suddenly daring to do something that he’d wanted to do for days… weeks… months, if he were being honest. He leaned forward, watching Feuilly’s expression for signs of discontent all the while, and pressed a soft, chaste kiss onto Feuilly’s cheek. Feuilly’s response was a brilliant smile, and a returned kiss, this one on Courfeyrac’s forehead, and a teasing “Good morning, sunshine.”

Courfeyrac’s lips stretched into a wide smile of his own as he said, “The Earth says ‘Hello?’”

“What?” Feuilly’s bright smile dropped into a look of pure bemusement as his eyebrows rose up to meet his hairline. Courfeyrac laughed and dropped another kiss onto Feuilly’s nose this time, before untangling himself and rolling out of bed. Feuilly groaned from behind him. “I should have known. What musical did I accidentally quote at you this time?”

Courfeyrac tossed Feuilly one last smile over his shoulder before he headed towards the bathroom. “Hair.”

Feuilly snorted out a laugh. “Of course. How could I not have realized?" He rolled his eyes. 

It was difficult for Feuilly, keeping straight all these show references when he’d never seen any of them. Courfeyrac understood, and he sympathized, but he could no more stop quoting musicals than he could stop perfectly coiffing his hair every morning. It was just a natural part of his charm. “No idea.” Courfeyrac paused at the door to the bathroom. “I’m going to be awhile. So… if you need anything out of here, you should grab it now. My mom told me earlier to let you know that you can use my sister’s bathroom, since she’s not in residence at the moment, and my dad put your clothes in there, anyway.”

Feuilly, at his driest, said, “Naturally. I appreciate the warning.”

“Any time.” As Feuilly passed by after gathering his toiletries from the bathroom, Courfeyrac reached out to snag his sleeve. When Feuilly turned to face him, an eyebrow raised in query, Courfeyrac just smiled, then leaned in to place another kiss on his cheek.

Feuilly’s wry expression softened and he ducked his gaze for a moment before freeing a hand to cup Courfeyrac’s cheek and slowly stroke his thumb along his cheekbone. Just as Courfeyrac’s eyes fluttered closed, he felt Feuilly’s lips pressing a kiss against his other cheek. Feuilly whispered, “See you in an hour,” and then he was gone.

And Courfeyrac did _not_ stand there with his hand pressed to the cheek Feuilly had kissed for several minutes after he’d left the room. Because that would be ridiculous.

* * *

Feuilly was downstairs long before Courfeyrac was, not that that was a surprise. Nor was it a surprise when Courfeyrac’s mother took advantage, pressing him into service to help with last minute additions to the ballroom decorations—a _ballroom_ , for fuck’s sake!—and the food. There was a twelve piece orchestra setting up beside the grand piano, and a roaring fire going in a fireplace large enough to fit a dining room table in. There were wreaths and garlands on every window and wall and glittering candles on every available surface. The room looking like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Feuilly couldn’t stop staring. Eventually Marie took pity on him and pressed a plate of hors d'oeuvres into one of his hands and a glass of holiday spiced wine into the other and instructed him to try to relax and enjoy the musicians until his husband got his ass downstairs.

His husband.

Feuilly had been sure that he’d imagined it earlier, when he’d heard Courfeyrac call him that. It hadn’t even been the words, themselves, that caught his ear. It had been the fond, exasperated tone he’d said them in. Cosette talked about Marius in the same tone. And it was taking everything Feuilly had not to read too much into it. So he stood in a corner by the fireplace, where he’d put his plate down on one of the tables, listening to the music and alternately taking sips of his wine and bites of things off his plate, trying his best not to dwell on it... or on the other thing Courfeyrac had called him when he'd been half asleep. Because that, at least, _had_ to have been a hallucination... right?

The food really was good, and Feuilly was focusing really hard on not dropping any of it on his brand new, $2000 tuxedo. Also, the musicians were playing Greensleeves—still one of his favorite songs, no matter how clichéd it was—when Courfeyrac finally came downstairs. Maybe that was why he didn’t notice right away, because he was distracted, but he sure as hell did notice when Courfeyrac let out a noise that was halfway between a gasp and a strangled tea kettle. Feuilly turned so fast that he almost choked on the puffed pastry he’d just put in his mouth. But, the second his gaze landed on Courfeyrac, Feuilly found himself making a sound nearly identical to the one that had caught his attention in the first place.

Feuilly had seen Courfeyrac present evidence at the Supreme Court. He’d seen him at school functions, wining and dining the elite donors to a prestigious university. He’d seen him presiding over Marius and Cosette’s engagement party, equally at ease with Cosette’s reclusive father and Marius’ upper class cousin. Feuilly had thought he’d seen Courfeyrac at his best. He really had. All of that…? It was _nothing_ compared to what he was seeing now. He’d never seen a set of clothing more perfectly designed and tailored to someone’s body. He’d never seen Courfeyrac’s hair looking quite so GQ model perfect. And the way he carried himself? This was the breeding Courfeyrac had come from. This was years of near-perfection distilled down to its sleekest, most beautiful form. No one in this room, no matter their gender, was going to have eyes for anyone else but him tonight, and from the way he carried himself, he knew it, too.

And right at that moment, that model of pure poise and perfection was staring at Feuilly as though Feuilly were putting him to shame.

They stood frozen that way, staring at each other, for at least five minutes. Feuilly had no idea what to do to break the tableau. He was too busy screaming inside his head that all along he’d known he wasn’t worthy of Courfeyrac, but that there was a difference between knowing and _knowing_ and now he _knew_ and what was he supposed to do with that? And, at the same time, a quieter voice, almost drowned at by the first, was squeaking desperately about why was Courfeyrac staring at him and looking like he was panicking over the same things?

Courfeyrac broke first, making another of those strangled tea kettle noises before whipping his phone out of his pocket and making frantic motions between it and Feuilly. It took Feuilly longer than it should have to realize that Courfeyrac didn’t want Feuilly to take a picture of _him_ , but that he wanted to take a picture of _Feuilly._ By the time they’d gotten that sorted out, Courfeyrac’s father had joined them and was laughing so hard that tears were rolling down his cheeks. When he got himself under control, he plucked the phone out of Courfeyrac’s hands and started ordering them into poses so he could take pictures of them together. Feuilly was too stunned to do anything but play along. Courfeyrac seemed to be the same, right up until the last picture, when he realized that his father was about to position them under the mistletoe. He balked at that, and Feuilly didn’t catch why, but he was still too stunned for most coherent thought. By the time Courfeyrac’s father finished with their impromptu photo shoot, the doorbell rang and Courfeyrac’s mother was yelling for Courfeyrac to please go answer it. He tossed an apologetic look in Feuilly’s direction, then dashed off towards the front door.

Courfeyrac’s father walked over to join Feuilly by the fireplace and gave him a knowing smile. “Judging from the shell-shocked look on your face when I got down here, I’d say my son made your jaw hit the floor quite nicely, wouldn’t you?”

Feuilly cleared his throat, then took a quick sip of wine, absolutely certain that he was going to squeak if he tried to talk otherwise. “I thought… I thought the whole point was for me to make _his_ jaw hit the floor, not the other way around!”

Courfeyrac’s father laughed. “Of course, not, my dear boy! The _point_ is to make the jaw dropping mutual! And Courfeyrac has known that since he was quite young. And I daresay from the raging blush he was sporting when he ran past just now, that he isn’t the only one who succeeded.”

And that was more food for thought than Feuilly could quite process right then. Fortunately for him, that was also when the guests started arriving, so he didn't have to think about it for long.

The rest of the night was an absolute blur. The only moments that stood out at all were the moments when Courfeyrac was at his side, an arm threading through his, or wrapped around his waist, or when they were pressed closely together, dancing to whatever tune the orchestra was playing. Judging from the looks of quiet approval and gentle fondness on the faces of most of the guests, they were doing an admirable job of playing a couple in their first honeymoon-like year of marriage. The only problem was… more and more, Feuilly wasn’t playing-acting. When Courfeyrac’s eyes met his across the room and he smiled that smile that was just for Feuilly, Feuilly's heart started racing every time, putting a flush in his cheeks and a wide smile on his lips like someone had just handed him the moon. And it was real. All of it. When Courfeyrac came to rest at Feuilly’s side, quietly wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his head on Feuilly’s shoulder, it was the most natural thing in the world to enfold him in the hug he clearly wanted and press kisses into his hair. It was everything Feuilly had ever wanted, and he never wanted it to stop… and that was a problem. Because, more and more, Feuilly was starting to dread the fact that when they left this magical bubble that was Courfeyrac’s family home, he was going to lose all of this and never get it back again.

So, Feuilly held on to every bit of the night that he could manage, no matter how little it was, even if it was only those scattered moments that revolved around Courfeyrac. And when midnight struck and they found themselves once more near that sprig of mistletoe that Courfeyrac had so deftly kept them away from earlier in the evening, this time, Feuilly knew what to do. He caught Courfeyrac’s hand and, once he had his attention, looked directly over at the mistletoe and raised an eyebrow.

Courfeyrac’s eyes glazed, and his breathing sped up, but not in a way that looked like an anxiety attack on the rise. Because along with those signs, his cheeks flushed and he nodded, taking a step sideways to put himself right under the mistletoe. Sometime between that breath and the next, seeing Courfeyrac standing there, eyes bright and expectant, lips slightly parted, time seemed to slow. Feuilly had all the time in the world to wet his dry lips and even drier mouth. He had all the time in the world to align himself precisely… so. To cup Courfeyrac’s face with one hand and to let the other settle into that perfect hollow just above his hip. To make sure his weight was balanced and his knees slightly bent instead of locked. To tilt his head at exactly the right angle, lean in, and…

That kiss was everything their first kiss had not been. It was chaste at first, close-mouthed, nothing more than a press of warm, dry lips against warm, dry lips. The second press of lips was deeper, more insistent, a hint of an open mouth beneath his. The third time their lips came together, it was open mouthed, lips and tongues and everything Feuilly had ever read a kiss could be. It ended with Courfeyrac’s head tucked under his chin, and both of them breathing heavily from the sheer exhilaration. But, what on Earth this was going to mean come morning… Feuilly hadn’t even a clue.

* * *

Courfeyrac didn’t sleep that night. He tried. He tucked himself into the circle of Feuilly’s arms, pressed into the protective curl of his body, and resolutely closed his eyes, but still sleep was elusive. So, he lay there all night, thoughts racing in helpless circles and always coming back around to that midnight kiss. He’d been entirely swept up in the moment, the thrill that playing belle of the ball at these galas always brought him, and Feuilly had been so exquisitely handsome and such an absolutely perfect gentleman and escort for the evening, moving through the gala like he’d been born to such elegance, himself… and when Feuilly had invited him to step under the mistletoe with him, the only thought in Courfeyrac’s head had been, “Yes!”

But now, in the wee hours of the morning, when all was still but for the softly falling snow outside, Courfeyrac was quietly terrified that in allowing himself to get swept away, he’d made a terrible mistake. There was no going back from a kiss like that. Courfeyrac didn’t _want_ to go back from it. He wanted to be married to Feuilly in truth, not just in name. He wanted to go to sleep beside Feuilly every night and wake up beside him every morning. He wanted to be able to look Feuilly in the eye and tell him he loved him and know that Feuilly understood that he meant that in a romantic sense in addition to a friend sense. He wanted Feuilly to come to this party and wear that tuxedo every year until they were the ones hosting it themselves… and then every year after that, too. He wanted Feuilly at his side raising children of their own, watching them grow up, spread their wings, and fly. He wanted to grow old together, knowing that 60 years from now, when they were old and wrinkled, Feuilly would still be there, holding him as they slept and dancing with him the way they’d danced tonight. He wanted it _all._ And he had no idea how to tell Feuilly that.

As the light of dawn finally broke over a world that was still silent, muted somehow, under a heavy blanket of newly fallen snow, Courfeyrac pried himself just free enough from Feuilly’s hold that he could sit up against the headboard. Pulling out his phone, he started flipping through the pictures his father had taken just before the party. His eyes were wide and terrified in those pictures. Shell-shocked. And that wasn’t far from the truth. That moment of “Oh, fuck, he’s _hot_!” that Courfeyrac had experienced upon walking into the ballroom and seeing Feuilly dressed for the party had been entirely unexpected and left him feeling like someone had just dropped a bomb on his head. That feeling had lingered, too, and was even now still lingering.

Courfeyrac moved on then, to the pictures his mother had taken and posted to the family Facebook group. There were pictures of his father, his brother, his sister and her husband, too, but even Courfeyrac could tell that a disproportionate number of those photographs were of he and Feuilly. And those pictures told a story, loud and clear. It was looking through those pictures that finally gave him a glimmer of hope.

When Feuilly woke almost an hour later and sat up beside him, Courfeyrac was still looking through those pictures, around and around, over and over. Feuilly wordlessly looked on with him as he swiped through picture after picture. When Courfeyrac got to the end, he put the phone down, but still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Feuilly when he asked the question that he needed answered before he said anything else. “Feuilly… are you in love with me?”

The way that Feuilly sucked in a ragged breath at that and the way he winced away from Courfeyrac when he asked it was nearly all the information he needed. Still, he waited. Eventually, Feuilly answered with a quiet, “Yes.” No embellishment, no excuses, just quiet, firm conviction.

“For how long?”

Feuilly put his head into his hands, rubbed vigorously at his face for a moment before answering. “Being entirely truthful?” A deep breath. “In some form or another, since the day we met. In a romantic way? I’m not sure I could pinpoint exactly when, but I’m starting to think it was sometime before we said, ‘I do.’”

Courfeyrac let out a tremendous sigh of relief at that and slumped down against Feuilly’s shoulder. “Oh, thank _fuck_.” 

Feuilly jerked away for a moment at that before bending down to try to get a glimpse of Courfeyrac’s face. “Wait… what? You… that’s a good thing?”

Courfeyrac sat up again and turned to face Feuilly, unwilling to say any of this in any way that could lead to misinterpretation. “Somewhere along the way of this absurd venture… I fell in love with you, too. And I have been tearing myself to pieces for weeks trying to figure out how to tell you without scaring you right into wanting a divorce.”

Feuilly’s mouth dropped right open, then closed a moment later with an audible click. It was another minute, at least, before he managed to respond in any way coherently. “Wait. You— You’re in love with me, too?” When Courfeyrac nodded, lips stretching into a smile so wide it made his cheeks ache, Feuilly just stared. “But… but… what does that _mean_?”

Courfeyrac laughed, then took both of Feuilly’s wildly gesticulating hands into his own and kissed them both. “It means, husband mine, that if we weren’t already married, this would be the part where one of us proposed. Seeing, however, as we _are_ already married… I think this is the part where I ask if you’d like to move from your room into mine when we get back home.”

Feuilly finally started to smile, too, and his entire posture relaxed along with it. “From my room to yours? Why not the other way around?”

Courfeyrac’s smile widened. “I mean… we can do as you like, for sure, but my room is bigger, has a view of the park, and it has its own bathroom. With a bathtub. So.” He shrugged.

Feuilly laughed. “Well, that settles that, then, I guess.”

“It does.” Courfeyrac paused, then, before continuing in a quieter, more subdued tone. “Just so you know… if we weren’t already married… and you _had_ asked me this morning… I would have said yes.”

“You would?”

“I would.”

Courfeyrac’s breath caught as Feuilly lifted his hands to cup his face, his gaze roving over every inch before finally landing on his lips. Courfeyrac could sense the kiss coming with the same undeniable undertow that the one last night had begun. Still he waited for it, hanging there between Feuilly’s hands, breathless, and a little light-headed with sudden want. Feuilly’s lips stretched into a soft smile. “Then I want you to know that—if we weren’t already married—and you had said yes? You’d have made me the happiest man in the world.”

Courfeyrac let out a breathless little laugh. “Well… I’m glad we got that settled, aren’t you?”

Feuilly nodded slowly, once, then twice, then leaned in. Courfeyrac leaned up at the same time and their lips met, slow and chaste at first, then quickly building to the same intensity that had left Courfeyrac so shaken just last night. 

Courfeyrac didn’t come back to himself after that until his brother’s voice yelled from down the hall, “Wake the hell up, everyone! It’s Christmas! Deck the halls with boughs of get your asses out of bed and come open presents!” By then Seth had reached their door and started pounding on it mercilessly and yelling, “Merry Christmas, you two! If you’re sleeping in there, then get the hell up! And if you’re doing anything else, I do not want to know, please don’t ever tell me!” before moving on down the hall to pound on their sister’s door to say the same thing.

Feuilly was laughing to himself, eyes squeezed shut and one hand clamped over his mouth not to give them away. When he finally calmed down, he kissed Courfeyrac again, quick and chaste this time, the kind of habitual kiss a married couple would share just because they loved each other and they could. And of all the kisses they’d ever shared, Courfeyrac found that one the most thrilling of all. Throwing his arms around Feuilly, he said, “Did you hear that, Feuilly? It’s Christmas!”

Feuilly wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac and rolled him back down onto the bed in one smooth motion. When they landed, Feuilly on top and staring down into his eyes as Courfeyrac laughed with pure delight, Feuilly said, “That is certainly is! And a merry Christmas, to you, husband mine!”

Courfeyrac reached up to brush Feuilly’s hair back from his face, then stroked his hand down Feuilly’s cheek. “Merry Christmas to you, too, my love.” This time, when Courfeyrac’s heart started to race from the thrill of saying those words, it was because _this_ time, he was allowed to mean it. This feeling was real, and he never planned to let it go.

**Author's Note:**

> (ETA:) No beta for this one, so any remaining mistakes are solely on my head. I'm sure there are a few. -.-;;;
> 
> Anyway, you can find me on tumblr @ [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com), so feel free to stop by and say hello! ^_^ And the photoset I made for the fic can be found [here](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/155216089927/of-tuxedos-and-tuition-breaks-17290-words), if you're interested. Thanks for reading! ^_^


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